


Endless Return

by spunker13



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-02
Updated: 2014-01-02
Packaged: 2018-01-07 03:26:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1114919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spunker13/pseuds/spunker13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock are still trying to get back into the groove of things, but John is still struggling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Endless Return

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first ever fanfic so go easy :) I'll gladly take constructive criticism. Hope you enjoy

Sherlock looked up from his microscope, eyeing John as he balanced a pen on his fingers. It was good to see him again, to smell the aftershave on his skin, and watch John’s emotions flit over his face. Some days were harder. John was holding onto resentment for leaving him the way he did. Every other night, he’d wake up screaming Sherlock’s name Mary told him, watching the leap off St. Bart’s all over again, just as clearly as he did a two years ago. He’d sit in bed, dizzied and unable to sleep until his dear fiancé soothed him.

It was awhile before John could tolerate living with Sherlock again. It wasn’t that he forgot how the man was, but rather, he didn’t think he could go back to living the way they used to, solving cases, fighting off assailants, and glaring down the press. He and John have managed to steer the press, welcoming back the famed detective, and Detective Inspector Lestrade was more than ecstatic and shocked to find that the egotistical ass was alive and well, and did whatever possible to keep Holmes in sight.

John tightened his coat and turned his face, almost to say something but he never did. Sherlock glanced back at the bacterium on the slide, but he could still see the unsaid words on John’s lips. What he said next wasn’t suspected.

“How about we order some takeaway and head back to 221b? I’m starving, and frankly, I’m tired of sitting here.” Sherlock tucked away his snide comments like he did the lab equipment, and joined John out the door. 

Cold rain drizzled down on them while they waited for a taxi. The street was littered with Anti-Sherlock propaganda, and graffiti on the door. Lestrade kept an officer or two near Baker Street purely for the ruffians that defiled Mrs. Hudson’s front steps. When the pair finally reached the top of the stairs and settled inside, John was burning again. He tried to busy himself by cleaning after Sherlock’s experiments, while Sherlock lay on the couch with his hands in a mock steeple under his chin. From the corner of his eye, Sherlock observed John as he tidied. After several moments, John stood over the sink, shoulders hunched and quivering. Unsure of what to do, he called out for him.

“What is it, Sherlock?” His voice was cold, steeled against its own shakiness.

“Nevermind.” John turned. Whatever it was that Sherlock was thinking of and didn’t say alarmed him. When didn’t Sherlock share his thoughts? The knock for delivery finally came, and the odd silence between them was broken.

They chewed in silence, but it was a new silence. Electricity buzzed between them. Sherlock’s pale stare never left John. The pace of their hearts quickened as Sherlock noticed John’s lips forming words.

“I don’t understand how you can sit here and pretend everything is fine.” Sherlock made note of the bitterness at the final word as he put down his chopsticks.

“Who said anything about pretending?” John’s nostrils flared a tad, but he straightened his back and put on his military show. 

“You’re full of it, Sherlock. If you tell me things are not different, then maybe you are not as brilliant as you think you are.” Insulted, Sherlock stood and started to stomp toward his violin. John pressed his arm against Sherlock’s chest. Feeling the quivering of John’s arm, Sherlock looked down on the doctor.  
Tears gathered at the corners of his eyes. Sherlock’s heart hiccupped.

“You don’t know how it hurt me,” he choked out. “You were everything to me, Sherlock.” At the sound of his name, a chord was struck inside of the detective. Sherlock took John’s hand from his chest and moved it back against John’s.

“I had to do it,” he sighed. “I had to make sure you and the others were safe.”

“It was selfish of you,” John hissed.

“Selfish?”

“Mary had to pick up the pieces, Sherlock. She was more than just a beautiful woman, but my savior. You don’t know how many times I tasted the muzzle of my gun.” Sherlock’s anger dissipated, leaving him empty inside.

Without John, he was nothing himself, and as much as he hated to admit it, John was his better half. He wasn’t sure what to do. It was one thing when he had punched him, but this was different.

Carefully, Sherlock reached out and held his friends shoulders, as a tear ran down his check. Immediately, they embraced each other, squeezing so hard it was as if they could never let go. John whimpered into Sherlock’s shoulder, unashamed by his tears, and Sherlock was both saddened and deeply glad to know how much it still affected him. Mary did hold him together when he was gone. He will forever be indebted to her (of course, not to her knowledge). 

Sherlock felt his own eyes burn with threatening tears, and he tried hard to swallow them back. John had silenced in her arms, feeling the doctor’s own loosening as well. They separated with low chuckles.

“John, it’s you and me against the world. No one will understand what we’ve gone through better than us.”

“Well, maybe Mary,” John laughed softly. Sherlock smirked, and placed a firm hand on John’s shoulder. John had straightened his back, and put back on his military form.

With a stern nod, John smiled, “We are all we need.”


End file.
